John Thurmon swore he'd be the first man on the moon.
But he wasn't. He was only the first murderer.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1950.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The ship lay at a crazy angle on the stark whiteness of the pumiceplain. The rocket nozzles were a fused lump of slag; the fire-darkenedhull crumpled and warped by the impact of landing. And there wassilence ... complete and utter silence.
There could be no return. Thurmon realized this. At first the thoughthad brought panic, but, as the scope of his achievement dawnedon him, the fear retreated. Bruised, giddy, half-crazed ... thecertainty of death held no terrors. Not yet. And it was worth it!Fame ... immortality! Glory ... in return for the last few years of ablighted, embittered, over-shadowed life. Yes, it was well worth it.And, except for the crash-landing and the certainty of no return, ithad all come to pass just as he had planned it for so long.
On his knees he caressed the gritty soil. He lifted his arms toward theDay Star flaming in the day-night of space and knew completion. Tearsstreaked his stubbled face, and strange noises came from his slackmouth. The ecstasy of success was almost unbearable. For this, he hadlabored a lifetime. For this, he had murdered a friend....
Across the abyss, the whole world waited for word. The transmitterin the rocket had survived the crash. The word would come, thoughtThurmon ... when he was ready to send it. And sending it, he wouldplace the official seal of immortality on his brow. The book wouldclose. But wonderfully, satisfyingly. There would be no other to stealhis rightful glory. Only Wayne could have done that ... and Wayne wasdead. He laughed weirdly within his helmet. So simply done!
The Sea of Serenity stretched out before him in weird magnificence.In the far distance a mountain range rose precipitously from thewilderness of pumice to hump its spiny backbone at the brilliant stars.A limbo of black shadows and stark white talus slopes. Moonscape!Thurmon stumbled to his feet and fought the wave of nausea that surgedover him as his equilibrium teetered from the low gravity. Then in aninstant his discomfort was forgotten. Standing on the brink of thecosmos, his ego drank of grandeur. All the splendor of Creation laybefore him like a jeweled carpet. All his! All for John Thurmon,genius ... explorer ... murderer! For John Thurmon ... first man onthe Moon!
With an effort he dragged his eyes from the sky. Slowly, his reasonwas returning. There was work to do. Wayne must be hidden. The next tocome must never know. And it should be done quickly. Time would fly andin the last hours the fear would return. He knew that. Right now histriumph sustained him.
There was the broadcast to look forward to. A billion people waited forhis words. It was a sop to his ego, but it could not make him forgetthat this was costing him his life. On occasion, Thurmon could berealistic, and he knew that, when there was nothing left to do but sitand wait for the end, he would be afraid. Terribly, hideously afraidand alone. It was the only flaw in his plan for immortality. Yet, hislife had been a barren thing, devoid of love or any real success. Itwas little enough to trade. And this was his only chance for lastingfame. He could not let it go.
The plan was working ... almost of its own inertia. He was alone.He was on the Moon, where no man had ever been before him. Not evenWayne. Wayne, who designed the rocket and guided it. Wayne, who hadstolen every chance Thurmon ha